for breakfast. The front door had been forced open, and the flood had registered its own height in a brown dado on the walls. Midmore chased the pig out and called up the stairs.
'I be abed o' course. Which step 'as she rose to?' Sidney cried from above. 'The fourth? Then it's beat all records. Come up.'
'Are you ill?' Midmore asked as he entered the room. The red eyelids blinked cheerfully. Mr. Sidney, beneath a sumptuous patch-work quilt, was smoking.
'Nah! I'm only thankin' God I ain't my own landlord. Take that cheer. What's she done?'
'It hasn't gone down enough for me to make sure.'
'Them floodgates o' yourn 'll be middlin' far down the brook by now; an' your rose-garden have gone after 'em. I saved my chickens, though. You'd better get Mus' Sperrit to take the law o' Lotten an' 'is fish-pond.'
'No, thanks. I've trouble enough without that.'
'Hev ye?' Mr. Sidney grinned. 'How did ye make out with those two women o' mine last night? I lay they fought.'
'You infernal old scoundrel!' Midmore laughed.
'I be—an' then again I bain't,' was the placid answer. 'But, Rhoda, she wouldn't ha' left me last night. Fire or flood, she wouldn't.'
'Why didn't you ever marry her?' Midmore asked.
'Waste of good money. She was willin' without.'
There was a step on the gritty mud below,
